


The things dreams are made of

by Apuzzlingprince



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street (Movies 1984-1994), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11957985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: Freddy meets a young Michael Myers and he finds out killing him isn't as easy as he would like. There's something wrong with that kid, and he isn't much better as an adult.





	The things dreams are made of

**Author's Note:**

> I had a plot bunny that wouldn't leave me, so here's a pairing I have yet to see anywhere else on the internet.

His name was Michael Myers. He was seven years old. He liked Nanna’s banana bread, clowns, the colour red, and watching girls play on the monkey bars during recess at school, especially when they forgot they didn’t have shorts beneath their skirts. He didn’t like his sisters. He hated his sisters, in fact, and had stabbed one of them sixteen times during his last Halloween celebration. And now, Michael Myers was a resident of Fairview Hospital, the youngest to ever be admitted. The asylum he’d come from hadn’t had the tools to care for someone so young.

Freddy scraped his blades along the rusted railing of a catwalk as he watched Michael survey the surroundings of his boiler room. The boy’s baggy coveralls, dark brown eyes, and dirty blonde hair didn’t fit the profile of a malicious killer. He was as soft and sweet as any other seven year old boy Freddy had seen, not unlike the children Freddy had killed prior to being caught by the parents of Springwood. If not for the insight into his past Freddy had received upon his entrance into the dreamscape, Freddy would never have thought him anything more than an unfortunate soul that had stumbled into the wolf’s den.

His soul, as damaged as it might have been, would still provide Freddy with sustenance. It seemed almost a shame to deprive the world of someone so broken, so drawn to people’s pain, but Freddy needed souls if he was to ever reach the children of those who had killed him.

The boy peered into the grating of a boiler, his chubby face illuminated by the flames. Freddy descended the steps of the catwalk to stand behind him, watching as he dragged his tiny fingers over the chipped metal, feeling every bump and crevice, every imperfection generated by the dreamscape. Strangely, when he withdrew, he came away from the heated metal unscathed. Freddy would have to work on that. After all, his powers were still in their infancy, and he couldn’t expect every aspect of his newly forged world to function the way he wanted.

He reached over Michael’s shoulder, leaning against the boiler with his gloved hand.

“Michael,” he said, but Michael didn’t turn around. The boy peered up at his glove with an open curiosity. He flexed his fingers, giving the boy a show.

“They call you a monster in there, don’t they.” Michael didn’t move an inch. “Well,” continued Freddy, leaning down so his face was by Michael’s ear. He dragged his blades down the side of the boiler, generating sparks. “I think you’re just a kid. A soft, squishy kid. I’m right, aren’t I, Michael? You’re just a kid, aren’t you? Even if you liked how it _felt_.”

Slowly, the boy turned around to face him, his dispassionate expression catching Freddy off guard. There was not even a _hint_ of emotion on his face. There was such a vast emptiness in his eyes that even Freddy, after all he had witnessed in both life and death, was taken aback.

“…Huh,” he said after a significant pause, licking his damaged lips. Did this kid even have a soul for Freddy to reap? He could certainly feel the soft, thrumming presence of one, but it was like the fading pulse of a dying man. It didn’t feel quite right, weaker than any other he had encountered. He didn’t know how much of a meal this boy would be with such a tenuous grasp on his humanity.

He placed his blades upon Michael’s shoulder to see if that would elicit a response. Much to his chagrin, Michael gave the action no acknowledgement. It wasn’t _fun_ if they weren’t scared.

“You’re a little more fucked up than I thought, kid,” he murmured.

He was curious enough to simply observe Michael as he withdrew something from the back pocket of his coveralls. He presented a kitchen knife to Freddy, already bloodied. Little bits of red flaked off and drifted to the warm cement beneath their feet.

Freddy laughed. “And what do you plan to do with that, hmm?” The _gall_ of this child. A satisfying meal or not, the boy wasn’t going to be leaving the dreamscape alive. “You’re getting a little big for your britches, kid. And you ain’t even wearing them.” He applied pressure to his blades, sinking them smoothly through fabric and into the pale expanse of Michael’s shoulder – at least, that was what he had intended to do. Within a blink of an eye, Michael was gone, and he was left groping at empty air.

Freddy rose to his full height with his hands on his hips, grunting in dismay. The faint thrum of a soul was still there, but people didn’t disappear like that unless they had left the dreamscape. This wasn’t the first time someone had escaped his clutches by waking. He wasn’t yet powerful enough to control the longevity of people’s dreams, and many of his guinea pigs had woken just prior to him attempting a final blow. The little shit had probably woken up to piss, because he certainly hadn’t been _startled_ awake.

As Freddy turned to resume meandering through his boiler room, he saw a flash of silver and a faint pain bloomed across his chest. It took him a moment to register that Michael was slashing away at him with the knife. Green oozed from the wounds he had created, and in his confusion, Freddy could only stumble back in an instinctual, uncoordinated attempt to evade further harm. Michael followed suit, applying the knife liberally to the opposite side of his chest.

Freddy had a limited capacity to feel pain in the dream realm, as he had discovered through experimentation, but it was just – surprising. This was Freddy’s realm. The kid shouldn’t have been able to perform a surprise attack.

But he had, and when he looked down, Freddy realised Michael had drawn a big, messy ‘M’ into his burnt flesh.

Satisfied with his work, Michael lowered the knife to his side. His coveralls were splattered in green gunk.  

Freddy decided he really did not like this kid. Which wasn’t saying much, really, since he hated children in general, but he really, _really_ did not like this kid. When he abruptly disappeared, Freddy wasn’t disappointed to see him go.

* * *

Weeks later, he came upon Michael watching the little girls that inhabited the dreamscape skip rope. He seemed to be paying particular attention to the way their dresses rose when they leapt into the air. He scarcely blinked as he observed them.

With a snap of his fingers, Freddy willed the girls away.

“Little pervert, ain’t ya.”

Michael turned to face him. He was just as impassive as he had been the last time Freddy had seen him. Such cold, empty eyes. Freddy did not like them one bit. Children weren’t supposed to look like that.

To make up for his last failure, Freddy made an attempt to impale the boy on his blades. It didn’t work. He disappeared just like the had the first time and Freddy was left cartwheeling into the cement.

Growling, he peered over his shoulder at Michael, who now stood behind him with a hand outstretched. He felt small fingers graze his back and twisted away, stumbling to his feet.

Now more than ever, Freddy knew he loathed children. He especially loathed the ones like Michael, the ones that refused to demonstrate the same docility of their peers. He would have liked to be able to remove the offending fingers from Michael’s hand to teach him a thorough lesson in personal space, but at this point, it was setting in that trying to hurt Michael was futile.

His fury only compounded when he saw Michael staring innocently up at him, having moved to his front within the few seconds it took Freddy to orientate himself. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d sold his entire being, his very existence to the dream demons so he could subsist in the dream realm and be the master of dreams. He supposed to be able to control every aspect of one’s subconscious, but this kid was eluding him in ways none of his other victims ever had. He couldn’t fathom _why_. Beyond his peculiar history, there didn’t seem to be anything _special_ about him. He was still a soft, vulnerable child with a soul that Freddy could consume. Or would have liked to consume, in any case.

Michael didn’t follow when he stormed away, but he was sure the boy would return soon. He seemed to have made himself comfortable in Freddy’s realm.

* * *

Freddy lost track of Michael’s visits. He only knew that there were a lot, and that Michael had inexplicably managed to teach himself how to alter the dreamscape. He knew when Michael arrived, because Michael had taken to announcing himself with a plethora of child-orientated things; merry-go-rounds, clown toys, candy of all varieties, Halloween pails, and the sound of an elderly woman humming. There was the occasional eviscerated animal hanging from a tree, but Michael’s interests were stunningly normal, otherwise. He had yet to produce a scantily-clad woman despite his clear interest in the female sex. Freddy was a little disappointed in that regard. Sure, he could produce his own scantily clad women if ever he was in the mood, but they weren’t as satisfying when they came from your own mind. They didn’t feel as _real_.

In the beginning, he had found Michael’s tampering annoying. An affront to his power. Now he regarded Michael’s childish antics with blasé indifference. He only needed leave Michael’s corner of the dreamscape and inhabit someone else’s if he wanted to escape the boys hastily assembled playpen.

Unfortunately, he had a hard time escaping Michael, who seemed able to follow him anywhere regardless of whose head he was inhabiting. He was rather like a limpet. Just as silent as one, too.

As there wasn’t a great deal for Freddy to do in the dreamscape except test the limits of his powers, Michael wasn’t really a disruptive presence. He was just an _annoying_ one. Freddy would be doing something incredible, like turning water into wine or parting a sea of blood, and there would be Michael, watching him from a quiet corner with that creepy blank stare of his. On bad days, presumably days where Michael hadn’t gotten his way in some manner, Freddy would usually find himself impaled on a knife, which was more of an injury to his ego than anything else.

Every so often, he would attempt to kill Michael. He had yet to succeed. He was starting to lose hope that Michael could even be killed. 

He had discovered one weakness in Michael, however: he didn’t like to be touched. He didn’t mind the scrape of blades over his shoulder, threatening injury, but he violently withdrew if Freddy reached for him with his naked hand. Even if it was to do something as innocuous as ruffle the boy’s dirty blond locks, he would withdraw so violently it was almost comical.

Freddy, naturally, utilised this knowledge to shoo Michael away whenever the boy became troublesome. Michael had to know what Freddy was doing, but short of confronting his loathing of any physical contact that wasn't initiated by himself, there wasn’t a great deal Michael could do. Freddy _relished_ the control.

* * *

Years passed, and Michael grew taller. At seven years old he had been a small, wiry boy that stood just above Freddy’s rib cage. After a growth spurt that showed no sign of stopping, his shoulders had broadened and his legs had lengthened, and now it was Freddy that had to look up when he wanted to catch Michael’s eye. It didn’t particularly bother him that he was shorter; being five foot eight, that was nothing unusual, but he did dislike the way Michael chose to announce his presence by looming over him. He didn’t create the play park anymore, nor did he produce candy or Halloween pails as he had as a child. He just… loomed, and Freddy would never admit it, but it was a little unsettling.

He was conspicuously absent when Freddy finally, after years of refining his powers, razed through the children of Elm Street. Or at least, he wasn’t making it known that he was observing Freddy while he tore, stabbed, and asphyxiated the offspring of those who had wronged him. Freddy could sense the presence of people who inhabited his dreamscape, and though he couldn’t see Michael, he knew he was there.

What happened to Michael when Freddy was pulled into the living world by Nancy, he couldn’t say, but his cool, palpitating soul was nowhere to be found when Freddy finally returned, humiliated and defeated. Despite everything – killing Nancy’s mother, trapping her in the car, terrorising her for days on end – the little bitch had managed to escape. For weeks after the incident, he created duplicates of Nancy to slaughter, allowing a few of the corpses to linger for aesthetic purposes. It was only when he stopped that Michael finally emerged.

The boy surveyed the pile of bodies with a tilt of his head. He probably recognized her, having observed Freddy’s antics.

“What?” asked Freddy. “You wanna turn? Be my guest.”

With a flick of his fingers, he summoned the petite form of Nancy Thompson before Michael and nudged her forward with an elbow. The boys interest was piqued immediately. Knife in hand, he turned to the girl, his breathing quickening. It’d probably been some years since he’d seen a woman that wasn’t marked with age.

Freddy reached over and brushed some hair out of Nancy’s face. He couldn’t see her eyes, but they were no doubt wide and watery. He was trying to hold onto that particular image for as long as possible.

“Women,” Freddy scoffed, drumming his fingers on Nancy’s shoulder. “Who needs ‘em, am I right?”

Michael seemed to share his sentiment, as he thrust his knife deep into her gut and tore thought her belly, eliciting a wonderful ear-splitting scream. Freddy hummed in delight as her lax body sunk to the floor and proceeded to bleed out onto the cement. It wasn’t as good as the real thing, of course, but Freddy enjoyed the sight all the same.

He glanced at Michael. The guy was breathing hard, pectorals straining against his coveralls. Freddy had never seen him so worked up before.

“Been a while, huh?”

Freddy willed the corpses away with a wave of his hand. He could always create more later, if he was in the mood to decorate.

“Well, reel it in, squirt, ‘cus that’s the one and only time you get to kill one of my children.” He might not have had Nancy, but he _did_ have the souls of her friends and her bitch of a mother, and they would be far more responsive than any wraith Freddy could create. He licked his incisors, smiling wide.

“Why don’t you have a wander,” he murmured, sliding past Michael. The boy reached for him as he did, his bloody fingers grazing Freddy's forearm. Freddy didn't think anything of it. “Daddy’s got some guests to entertain.”

* * *

As Michael passed through late adolescence, the frequency with which Michael tried to touch him grew. When Freddy’s guard was down, he would glide his hands over his sweater and pull at the frayed material, as though it was something new and spectacular and not something Freddy had been wearing every day since they met. When he stabbed Freddy, he liked to touch the wounds he created, sliding his hands through the gunky fluid that Freddy’s body expelled and squeezing it between his fingers. Sometime Freddy managed to shoo him away before he could initiate contact, other times he was too slow to prevent it.

Michael’s face wasn’t blank when he touched Freddy, and the covetous way he looked at Freddy made him wish it was. He couldn’t tell if Michael wanted to kill him, or… well, the _other_ thing. Maybe Michael himself didn’t know. Maybe he just wanted, and he didn’t know what to do with that. And what would happen when he finally _did_ figure out what he wanted? He had enough control over the dreamscape that there was an uncomfortable possibility he could _do_ something about it, and Freddy had more important things to be worrying about than a teenager’s budding libido and/or homicidal appetite. He was by no means scared, but it did make him feel like prey, and he didn’t like that.

The only solution he could think of was to give Michael what he wanted. Or at least, one of the things he seemed to want.

At nineteen years of age, Michael had grown into a reasonably attractive man. It made grabbing his crotch much less unpleasant than it might have been otherwise.

Surprisingly, Michael didn’t push him away. For the first time since meeting the boy, the apathy on his face was gone, replaced by an expression of shock. Freddy grinned. He rather liked this look on him. It made him seem frightened and small, like he should have been.

“What’s wrong, sugar?” he asked, raising a hairless brow. “Not everything you dreamed of?”

A hand snapped to his throat and squeezed, pushing him to the grating while he cackled and ground his palm against the boys growing arousal. The pressure on his windpipe did nothing to deter him. It wasn’t possible to asphyxiate him in his own realm. Michael could crush his throat, perhaps, but it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds for that to heal.

Michael’s face came uncomfortably close to his own, his harsh breaths warming Freddy’s chin. His unkempt hair fell over his eyes and brushed Freddy’s cheek. It was darker than it had been a few years prior, almost brown, and it ticked his skin in a way that reminded Freddy of holding his daughter close enough to tuck her pig-tailed head under his jaw. Not the most appropriate thing to think of, given the circumstances, but he couldn’t recall another instance of someone being close enough to him to feel their hair on his skin. In all his years of marriage, he’d probably only kissed his wife twice. Once on a date, and once at their wedding. He’d never much liked her, though she had been a perfect front for his illicit activities.

Chuckles tapering off, Freddy slid a thumb over the tent in Michael’s trousers, watching his mouth twitch and his eyes flutter shut. The grip on Freddy’s neck tightened. Dreamworld or not, he was starting to get dizzy from the lack of circulation to his brain. It was a response born of muscle memory and not an easy one to shake despite having the ability to moderate what feelings reached his synapses.

He started to apply gentle strokes to the boys growing arousal. He must have been reasonably well endowed, because Freddy couldn’t quite fit it in his palm. “You’re more exciting than my wife,” he muttered, thumbing the wet patch steadily developing over the head of Michael’s cock. “Ugly as sin, that one. Looked like a fuckin’ fish on an embankment when she was coming.”

Just as Michael began to pant softly, he withdrew his hand, dropping it to his side. A slight crease developed on Michael’s brow. Disappointment, perhaps? His hand hovered over Freddy’s wrist, but he couldn’t seem to convince himself to go through with prompting Freddy to continue.

Eventually he procured a knife and proceeded to stab Freddy repeatedly in the chest, something Freddy found terribly amusing.

“Have a cold shower,” he bellowed to Michael as Michael made his departure.

Michael didn’t return for some time following the incident, so Freddy busied himself by playing warden to his newly acquired souls.

* * *

Following the passage of time in the dreamscape was no easy task. It fluctuated violently depending on whose head it was Freddy was occupying, and how focused his attention was; accelerating and decelerating, skipping and leaping. Time always moved forward, but it had all the consistency of an ECG Graph. For that reason, he couldn’t say how long it was before Michael finally returned. It could have been months, or perhaps years. Usually he would have been able to make an estimation based on Michael’s appearance, but the boy returned today with a chalk-white mask covering the entirety of his face.

“Come to visit your ol’ uncle Freddy?” he smiled toothily as Michael advanced. “Well, well, someone’s eager. I must warn you, though: I’m not much of a hugger.”

Michael made no attempt to hug him, fortunately. He merely coiled one of his large hands around Freddy’s bicep.

Freddy stared at the hand. Whatever message Michael was trying to convey, he wasn’t getting it.

“Good to see you too?” he tried, bemused. Michael didn’t move an inch. “C’mon kid, this is getting _awkward_.”

He was just about ready to tear out of Michael’s grip when the boy finally moved, fisting his opposite hand around the collar of Freddy’s sweater. Freddy didn’t quite understand the purpose of doing so until he felt the floor fall out from under him and looked down, finding wood beneath his feet instead of concrete or grating.

He wasn’t in his boiler room anymore. He was in a dark, derelict room that appeared to have been vacant for some years. A thick layer of dust rose up from the floor as he turned to look around. He didn’t manage to get far, however, before Michael yanked him back around by his sweater.

Oh, Freddy did not like that. He was no one’s rag doll.

Snarling, he pressed his blades to Michael’s wrist. “Remove it before _I_ remove it.” Maybe he would anyway, just to teach Michael a lesson. He could survive with one hand. Probably. He’d just have to employ a little more creativity in his future kills.

Michael didn’t release him. Instead, he prised Freddy’s hand off and held it aside with a firm grip. Freddy tried to free himself, but it was like fighting a brick wall. No matter how much he squirmed and pulled and kicked his feet, Michael refused to move. He hadn’t thought anyone could be this _solid_. One could have replaced him with a marble pillar and the sturdiness would have been about the same.

Only when Michael wanted to move did Michael move, pressing him deftly to the floor and seating himself upon Freddy’s thighs. Freddy didn’t have much success when he tried to push him off with his hips.

“Not even gonna wine and dine me first?” He bared the fine points of his teeth at Michael. “Being locked up don’t mean you gotta forgo basic manners, ya thoughtless fuck. Which, coincidentally, seems to be what you want.” His tongue slithered over his incisors. “Well, see, I’m more of a top than a—hhrgh!”

Wherever Michael had retrieved the knife from, Freddy didn’t know, but he was quite aware of it now that it was buried in his chest. He’d forgotten just how _painful_ being alive was. He didn’t have the adrenaline to stave off the agony, like he had with Nancy. This pain was fresh and sharp and unavoidable, and it was enough to make him groan and wither. He grabbed at Michael with his free hand, drawing in wheezing breaths.

“Not gonna work,” he gurgled, twitching violently when Michael began to draw the knife down, agonisingly slow, slicing through bone and muscle and organs with startling ease. The blood that bloomed to the surface wasn’t the green it had been in the dreamscape. It was bright, vivid red that spread smoothly across the floorboards. His hand began to tremble as Michael pulled the knife up before driving it deep into his chest, into the floorboards, pinning him in place.

It took more than a fatal stab wound to take down Freddy Krueger, fortunately. He might not have been as powerful in the real world as he was in the dream world, especially with such a tenuous grasp on his children’s souls, but he did retain some of his enhancements. He was more durable, stronger, and to some degree, he could control the world around him… he just happened to be slightly less physical adept than Myers, who probably could have held a charging rhinoceros at bay with one hand.

Michael released the handle of the knife. With deft fingers, he caught his zipper and yanked it down, unveiling the pale expanse of his chest and belly and- ah, a considerable hardness between his legs. Of course.

“Kid,” he groaned. “Do you even know what the fuck to do with that? You’ve been in a padded cell for the last – what – decade?”

Michael reached for Freddy's belt. Well. He must have had a basic idea, then.

“Listen, blue balls,” he said, snapping his fingers. “If you skip out on the reach around, ‘m gonna make you a eunuch the next time we meet.”

Michael very slowly tiled his head, then pulled the belt free of its buckle and reached beneath the waistband, grasping clumsily at Freddy’s cock. He seemed to find it a curious thing, sliding his fingers over the leathery head and squeezing at the base. Freddy raised his hips so suddenly that Michael paused, maintaining a tight grip on Freddy’s cock. He continued to examine Freddy while Freddy pushed a groan past clenched teeth and sunk back to the floorboards.

It’d been a long time since he had been touched intimately, or touched himself. He liked to employ sexuality against his victims, to scare them, but he so strongly associated the infliction of pain and death with pleasure that sex generally wasn’t a necessary component for Freddy to find satisfaction. He hadn’t so much as touched his dick in over a decade. He hadn’t particularly wanted to, either, after he had been unintentionally circumcised in the fire.

Michel arranged himself so their arousals were pressed together before he resumed stroking. With their cock’s side by side, the difference in size and colour was very pronounced. Not that Freddy had anything to compensate for, but Michael was noticeably longer, thicker, and pinker, and he had sparse patch of brown hairs at the base, whereas Freddy’s cock was as patchy and red as the rest of him.

When he glanced up at Michael, the man was openly staring at him. He wasn’t used to being watched during sexual exploits. His partners, both men and women, had generally been face down so he could hold them by the back of their neck. It was strange, being pinned down and examined like this. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He wasn’t sure he hated it, either, and regardless of how he felt, he still covered his face with a forearm, breathing shallowly while he struggled to maintain composure. The pain and pleasure was a delectable combination, even if the pain had prevalence.

For someone whose motor functions were often limited to stabbing, grabbing, and following Freddy around, Michael had surprisingly talented fingers. He squeezed, and stroked, and glided the pads of his fingers over the sensitive heads of their cocks, wetting them with pre-come and blood. Freddy bit on the end of his tongue when Michael started to roll his hips, grinding their cocks together.

Little fucker certainly knew what he was doing. He’d probably fantasied about this often enough to have come up with a general idea of how sex between men worked. Freddy might have been a little flattered by the interest had Michael not impaled him with his knife beforehand. Being stabbed and torn down the middle tended to dampen ones enthusiasm for sex.

“Jesus fuck,” he groaned, blades of his glove grazing the dusty floorboards while he minutely shifted every part of his body, curling his toes and pressing his face into the crook of his elbow and raising his hips into Michael’s next stroke. This felt far better than it had any right to.

Michael’s heavy breaths punctuated each stroke. He didn’t seem to be handling the attention of his hand much better than Freddy was, though his gaze remained aligned with Freddy. In the dark of the room, Freddy couldn’t make out his eyes, but he knew he was watching, absorbing every little thing Freddy did or said in response to his ministrations.

“Oh- fuck- fu-!” This final exclamation broke into a gasp as Freddy spilled into Michael’s hand, shivering violently upon the dirty floor. Raw, warm, and content, his body fell lax in Michael’s grip. Blood loss rendered him dizzy and weak, but any instinct for survival he had was muffled by the euphoria of climax.

Michael continued to stroke his own cock until he, too, came with a muffled groan, the first sound Freddy had ever heard from the boy’s mouth. And it was quite a nice sound, too. Soft and swathed in restraint.

The moment he was finished, Michael tucked himself back into his coveralls and zipped himself up, standing without so much as a tremor in his legs. He left Freddy lying upon the floor, knife still in his chest and blood seeping into the cracks between the floorboards. Freddy made no attempt to stop him.

It was only a matter of time before the denizens of hell came for him. Freddy waited.

* * *

The boy had the audacity to return to him a short time after their clandestine meeting. At a slow lumber, he advanced on Freddy, and Freddy stood his ground as Michael stepped into his personal space.

“Come back for round two, kiddo?”

Freddy dragged the tips of his blades over Michael’s collarbone, the white of his teeth turned pink under the harsh red lighting. Michael didn’t even flinch when he tore off the top-most button on his coveralls.

“Y’better make it more memorable, this time.”

Michael lunged forward, and Freddy met him half-way.


End file.
